


1000 Lines - COMMISSION

by Commissions by Eonneo (Eonneo)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Clawing, Dubious Consent, Face Slapping, Kissing, M/M, Punishment, Slapping, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:13:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21934288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eonneo/pseuds/Commissions%20by%20Eonneo
Summary: Michael has fallen foul of a foolish joke he thinks his husband, Alen, has played on him. Cue problems, only to discover via a text that it was someone else. He then needs to make it up."What about if I write 1000 lines?" Michael asked brightly."No." Alen started to unthread his belt.Mikhail swallowed and tried to stay focused. His belt? "Oh shit."
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 3





	1000 Lines - COMMISSION

**Author's Note:**

> YO, so, I've been a bit burnt out on my hobbies. Took a break for the holidays. Got this commission about a month ago and just got the motivation to finish it. It was a Christmas gift from one friend to another, of the friend's original male characters. I had fun, it's my first commission that's within my line of writing. Hope you like it, and thanks for your patience.
> 
> Also, since these are original characters, expect you may not understand everything goin on. But it's pretty easy for the most part to get, without much context.

Michael sat on the couch, lazily browsing through his phone. Soon, it would be time for him to leave for work, which he dreaded but knew it was necessary. He was trying hard to ignore the passage of time, the clock on the wall loudly ticking each second away. After a few more scrolls of his thumb on the phone screen, he rolled his eyes up to the clock and sighed. It was time.  
Standing up, stretching, running his fingers through his hair, he went up to his room to dress. His wing was hidden for the day, as it usually was for work. Or really, any time. Even with just one wing, it found itself in the way of most basic daily tasks, one of which being when Michael wore clothing.  
Dressed and, for the most part, mentally prepared to work, he paced down to the living room to grab his keys. Reaching his hand up, though, he only grabbed air. Confused, he looked at the row of hooks next to his door to see nothing. So he checked the ground, remembering he had left his keys right there, hanging. Or so he thought.   
He went next to searching the living room, but it produced nothing. Frustrated, he decided to text his husband, Alen, asking if he had seen the keys. Shortly after, Alen replied, telling him shortly, “No.” Michael wasn't satisfied with that, but he kept looking. Kitchen, living room again, hallway.   
“Are you sure you haven't seen them?” he texted Alen again. Another moment, and he replied, “No, I told you already. Stop asking.”   
Michael began to think that Alen was messing with him, which wasn't exactly like him, but not unheard of. Michael smiled a bit, thinking of how cute it was that Alen was trying to give him a bit of a joke for the start of his day. He figured his keys had to be around somewhere, and he searched, this time going to their shared bedroom. He dug through drawers until he came across a note on the dresser itself.  
It was a crudely written note that said, “Excuse for work – my friend stole my keys.”   
“I knew it,” Michael said simply. He texted Alen again.  
“I found your note. Stop messing with me, dude, I have to go to work.”  
A moment passed.  
“Michael, I don't know where your keys are. Stop asking me.”  
“Right. Then explain the note on the dresser.”  
“I don't know what you're talking about.”  
Michael sat on his bed, furiously texting, frustrated.  
“Dude, really. I need to get to work. I'm already going to be late.”  
“Then maybe find your keys,” Alen replied. Michael could just hear his tone of voice now, even through reading the reply.  
Michael began aggressively texting, the clicks of his thumbs against the screen the only sound in the room.   
“Alen!”   
“Michael, I don't know. Don't ask me again. Don't.”  
“Well, thanks for fucking up my day.” That last part was a bit harsh, but his job was important to him, and he felt the limit of the joke had gone too far.  
Alen did not reply, and so Michael searched hard. He had given up on searching for the moment and then went to call his boss, only to see he had a text from a friend.  
“Find your keys yet?” he asked.  
“No, I think Alen hid them.” Michael leaned against the dresser, looking over the crude excuse again. That didn't really seem like something Alen would do, but then again, the man did surprise him sometimes.  
It then hit him, how did his friend know his keys were missing? Had Alen told him? But then, Michael realized that Alen didn't really talk to this friend much, and the realization hit him of what had happened.  
“What? No. It was me, dude. I'm just messing with you.”  
“What?” Michael typed.  
“Yeah, when I was up yesterday. Thought I'd have a little fun. They're under your dresser in your room.”  
“Oh,” was all Michael replied. “You made me late.”  
“I know,” his friend replied. Michael sighed, reached under the dresser, and found his keys on the soft carpet. He sighed, this time in relief, snatched them and quickly hurried downstairs to leave. He was then surprisingly greeted with Alen standing in the doorway. His face was hard, and he didn't seem happy.  
“Find your keys?” he questioned, monotone.  
“Yeah, a friend hid them under the dresser.”  
“I told you it wasn't me,” Alen coldly asserted.  
Michael shrugged, and smiled at Alen.  
“That's fine. Sorry. I have to leave.”  
Michael tried to step by Alen, but he held an arm out, pushing Michael back with a small amount of force.  
“Alen,” he groaned. This had gotten ridiculous.  
“You kept accusing me of stealing your keys.”  
“I said I'm sorry,” Michael insisted, looking at Alen with big eyes. Alen looked back with little care.  
“That's not enough.”  
Michael rolled his eyes, looking back at the clock. Late. He was late.   
“I'll write 1000 sentences. Okay?”   
Alen twitched his lip.  
“No.”   
Alen, dressed neatly in dark clothes, began to undo his belt. Michael swallowed hard, a bit sure of Alen's next move.  
“Oh, shit,” he hissed, stepping backwards. He nearly tripped over a table, and in that moment, Alen slapped him, his fingers then sliding to his neck, slamming him over the table. The decorations on it fell to the carpet with a quiet thud, and Michael tried to brace himself. Alen dug his nails into Michael's neck, who whimpered.  
“Don't you dare accuse me of shit, Michael,” he demanded. He lifted Michael back up, turned Michael to face him and slapped him again, this time grabbing his face. Michael again whimpered, taking Alen's hand in his own.   
“I said I'm-” Michael began, but Alen's hand went down to his throat and choked. Again, he tossed Michael over the table and finished sliding his belt from his pants, bunching it up and offering a sharp whip across Michael's back. He yelped, this time loudly, his nails scraping onto the table's polished wood.  
“Alen!” Michael was pleading, another glance at the damned clock haunting him as it hung on the wall, ticking away.  
“Stop talking,” he curtly said, this time whipping his ass instead of his back. His eyes watered a bit, but inside, he couldn't help but be amused and almost enjoying what Alen was doing. He wasn't like this too often, but when he was, Michael found pleasure in it.   
Alen came up to Michael, gripping his hips, pulling them into his own. He began to grind, for a moment, but for the fun of it, Michael resisted. Alen didn't enjoy this, and took Michael by his hair, tossing him to the ground. Alen straddled him for a moment, holding his throat, looking down at Michael with a mixture of hidden amusement and pleasure. He stepped back, and smacked his belt across Michael's clothed thigh.   
At that, Alen dropped himself over Michael and met him in a rough kiss, filled with tongues. Alen bit Michael's tongue, digging his nails into his arm. He felt himself hardening in his pants, and stepped back, leaving Michael gasping. With a yank of his hair, Michael was drug up, over another table in the living room. Alen ripped his pants down, reached for his belt, and slapped one more mark across his bare thighs. Michael half yelped, half moaned, and at this, Alen found himself hungry.  
He pulled his own pants down, braced Michael by his back, and with a thrust was in him. Michael again moaned, his arms at his sides, clawing at whatever he could reach. Alen found himself grunting under the force of his own thrusting, his own nails at Michael's hips, his eyes taking in the marks his belt and hands had left. They were red, tender, and all from _him_.   
He took his time at first, thrusting slowly, then quickly, getting both of them to the edge, just to again slow. He wanted to drag it out, making Michael hurt from the dryness of it, his body against the marks he had left. Michael himself enjoyed every feeling of it. Alen's aggression was at times unchecked, but just perfect in the right context.  
The two had lessened to just grunts of pleasure, and Alen was done waiting. He thrusted quickly, enough for Michael to climax, his sounds filling the air, edging Alen himself on to finish, his movements becoming sloppy and without rhythm. When done, the two were a mess, Alen still hanging over Michael, panting.   
Before Michael could say anything in relation to what had happened, Alen stepped back, pulling his pants back up.  
“Get to work. You're late,” was all he said,  
Michael stood up, sore, but relishing in his pain. He smiled at his husband and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.  
“Love you,” he said, quickly heading out the door. Alen didn't reply, but he knew that his husband loved him back in his own odd way.


End file.
